The Last Twilight

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Rikki tugged, gently. Eddie let go, and closed his eyes. He did not look peaceful, but he did not look afraid, either. Resigned, perhaps.

  Don’t think too hard, she told herself, spreading the wet cotton over his flesh. She lay down beside him, trying to stay calm, and closed her eyes to shut out the sight of him.

  She did not mean to sleep, but she did—dreamt fleetingly of knives and fire and men with sunlight for eyes. She woke with a bad taste in her mouth, a worse feeling in her gut, and lay very still, staring at the sky, listening. The sun had moved deep into the west, getting on into late afternoon. The wind blew softly through the tall grass, swaying it into a slow dance.

  Somewhere nearby, stones crunched.

  Rikki’s heart shot so hard into her gut she almost puked. She inched up on her knees and peered over the grass. Just for a moment. Then she ducked down, fast.

  Men stood by the river’s edge. Only three, but she did not trust her eyes. They were laden down with weapons, wore loose clothing. If they spread out, started walking upstream …

  You are so screwed. Might as well pick your poison now and get it over with. Blaze of glory. Hoo-rah.

  Eddie lay very still beside her. His breathing was shallow. Rikki pressed her fingers against his throat, and was not certain what disturbed her more—that he did not stir, or that his pulse was uneven. His skin was hot to the touch, frighteningly so, and she thought of fire and burning men. Herself, aflame. By accident, by direction. She did not know exactly what Eddie could do, but if he became delirious, lost control …

  Stop. Right now, stop. Not when you know what it’s like to be seen as broken. Don’t you do that to him. Doesn’t matter how strange things might be. He’s still a human being.

  And he was dying. She was going to die, too, but at least it was an eventuality she had prepared for. Eddie was just a kid. He had more hearts to break, more girls to play knight for. A life to live.

  Rikki’s eyes stung. She pressed her mouth against his ear. “Hey, kid. Can you hear me?”

  His eyelids fluttered and he mumbled something incoherent. Rikki could not help herself—she kissed his forehead, smoothing back his hair. Frankie had liked it when she did that.

  Stop it. He’s not your brother.

  But even so, Rikki could imagine Eddie filling that role and it hurt like hell. Two years spent fighting to avoid that kind of pain, and now … now she was being a fool all over again.

  More rocks crunched. She tried to peer over the grass. Her elbow nudged Eddie—by accident—and he took that moment to wake up. Coughing.

  The sound was horrible, loud. Not so far away, she heard a shout. Eddie froze, covering his mouth, then looked down. There was blood in his palm.

  He looked at her, stricken, and Rikki pushed him back, reaching beneath him with her other hand for a gun. “We’ve got company. I want you to stay here, out of sight. Okay?”

  “No,” he said, but there was no time to argue. She shoved him flat, using all her strength, and jumped to her feet in plain view of anyone who cared to be looking. And there were quite a few: men she had not seen before. Armed and staring.

  Rikki ran, angling toward the river and the distant leading edge of the jungle, trying to draw the men away from Eddie. They shouted at her—one of them fired his gun into the air—but she slowed only enough to take a wild shot over her shoulder, which succeeded at nothing but making her stumble from the recoil and her frayed nerves. She caught her balance and kept running. She had to get far away, distract the men so much they wouldn’t think to look for Eddie.

  Stay down, she pleaded silently. Kid, stay down.

  But it was too much to ask. She heard him shout, followed by another gunshot and a scream—and turned in time to see a glimpse of fire. But that was all. Something large rammed into her back and she went down hard, cracking her chin on the ground. Hands grabbed her waist, hauling backward, reaching over her to grab the gun still in her hand.

  Just like before. Rikki went crazy. She twisted, screaming, using her elbows and legs, doing everything in her power to break free. Fingers dug into her scalp, but she rolled and scrambled backward, trying to plant her feet in the man’s gut. He was big, red-faced, familiar—the man from the airfield who had called her by name. His eyebrows were thick as a moustache, creeping up his forehead like some awful wiry mat, and his breath smelled rancid, like garlic and rotting meat—with somebody’s dirty crotch thrown into the mix.

  His fingers crushed her gun hand. She bit back a cry and he grunted, eyes cold and angry, rearing back with his other fist, ready to slam it down into her face. Rikki steeled herself.

  “Marco!” someone snapped. The man above her froze. He was breathing hard, almost shuddering with the effort not to land that blow. Rikki stared into his eyes, forcing herself to stay sharp. Ready.

  “Marco,” said that other voice, quieter now, smooth. “Marco, her gun.”

  Rikki tried not to let go, but the man dug his fingers into her nerves, and the pain was too much. He took the gun from her, and only then did he let go. She scrambled backward, breathless, trying to stand—

  —and got an eyeful of nightmare. Eddie was crumpled on the ground, unconscious. A dart jutted from his shoulder. The metal reflected sunlight, making her eyes water. On either side of him stood two armed men dressed in black, big and husky with muscle, bristling with weapons. Blond. Hard eyes.

  And in front of them, another man. Narrow, lean, with an angular face and short hair so pale it was almost white. He wore—of all things—a cream-colored suit and pale blue dress shirt, perfectly tailored and cut to his body. It was stained now, with sweat; his pants were covered in mud.

  He turned slightly. Rikki saw a gun in his hand. Held with a delicate grip, finger on the trigger.

  “Wild cat,” murmured the man, staring. “Little Regina Kinn. What a pleasure.”

  Rikki bit down on her tongue. The man’s eyes were cold, the color of old bone, and just as lifeless. Dead eyes. Same as those old prison guards who had watched her every time she went to visit her father. Like she was nothing, bait. Rikki had hated that. And she hated it now.

  She pointed at Eddie. “What did you do to him?”

  He seemed amused by her question. “I disabled a weapon.”

  “He’s a boy.”

  The men behind him stirred, glancing at each other. The man in the suit smiled thinly. “I’m afraid not. Not just a boy.”

  Rikki swallowed hard. “Who are you?”

  “A friend.”

  “Bullshit. Give me a name.”

  Again, that smile. “Call me Broker. Call me anything you like.”

  “Motherfucker,” she said. “Get out of my face.”

  His gaze flickered. Marco slung his arm around Rikki’s neck, jerking her against his chest. Her feet dangled off the ground. She began to choke. Broker moved close. He was all she could see. His eyes were cold, like ice. Not golden. Not warm.

  “We will start first with you,” he said.

  Chapter Nine

  Even before her father was sent to prison, there had been a sense in the Kinn household that things might get worse. Mother and wife gone, a child dead, money tight—the possibility of catastrophe was practically banging down the door. Not that Frank Kinn had ever let it get him down. He was a fan of Aunt Eller from Oklahoma! and of her one perfect sentiment: that people were about as happy as they made up their minds to be. It was something he never let Rikki forget.

  Be strong. Don’t give up. Don’t lose your goddamn head.

  But this was something that might have given even him, Mr. Pollyanna, a bit of pause.

  She lay on the ground, on a clean white sheet under the failing afternoon sun. The material was soft and smelled fresh from the dryer, even though one of the blond men had shaken it loose from his pack. Eddie was nearby, on a similar sheet. He lay very still. His breathing was shallow. Blood flecked his nostrils and the corner of his mouth. The dart still jutted from his shoulder.

&nb
sp; Broker sat beside her. No conversation. No explanations. Not even a cackle or some waggling of a sinister eyebrow. Rikki would have preferred that. His silence felt like the grave.

  Marco opened a small plastic box. Broker pulled out a pair of latex gloves. He snapped them on and flexed his fingers.

  Rikki stifled panic. “What are you doing?”

  “What I must.” Broker looked her in the eyes. “Are you scared of needles, Doctor Kinn?”

  Rikki said nothing. She glanced from him to the two blond men holding her down—and decided right then that if she ever saw another fucking bleach-bottle head of hair she was going to bite someone’s face off their skull.

  One of the men crouched over her shoulders. His fingers dug into her flesh, pressing down. He wore an earring, a diamond, just a pinch of a rock. The man at her feet had a tattoo of Elvis on his neck. The King was peeking out of his shirt.

  “A Little Less Conversation” immediately began playing in her mind. She tried to move—managed to surprise the men—but Marco stepped in with a sharp foot to her gut, and she stopped. Mr. Earring shot the man a quick glare. Rikki tried not to wheeze.

  “Marco,” said Broker. “Go to Edward.”

  Marco did, shooting Rikki a dark look. His hands and arms were covered in white bandages. She did not like the way he stared down at Eddie. Or how he stroked the knife strapped to his thigh. He did not look exceptionally bright, but he made up for it in meanness.

  “How do you know who we are?” she asked Broker, trying to keep her breathing steady as he removed a Vacutainer from the tiny plastic kit at his side. She saw several blood collection tubes embedded in foam, vacuum caps in an array of different colors—additive identifiers, for different blood work: toxicology, immunology, DNA studies.

  “I make it my business to know many things,” Broker replied. “Identities are one of the easier to come by.”

  Rikki looked again at Eddie. “He’s been exposed to a disease. We all have.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not worried about getting sick?”

  Broker paused, staring at her. Then, very quietly: “Marco. Knife.”

  Marco knelt and unsheathed his knife. He placed the edge of the blade against the joint of Eddie’s thumb. Rikki held her breath.

  “I am going to draw your blood now,” Broker said. “I am going to draw your blood, and you will not fight me. If you do, Marco will cut off Edward’s thumb. He will cut off a finger for every time you disobey me.”

  “He’s dying,” Rikki said, numb. “What do I care?”

  “Oh,” breathed the man. “I think you care very much, indeed.”

  Hate swelled. “Leave him alone. I’m the one you want.”

  “Yes.” Broker smiled, tying her arm. “But not the only one.”

  Rikki stared. He tapped out her vein and slid the needle home.

  The blood draw was quick, relatively painless, and utterly mysterious. Rikki did not dare ask questions, not with Marco looking so eager to slice and dice. Nor did she want to risk pushing the limits of what Broker called disobedience. His eyes were too cold.

  Broker took Eddie’s blood, as well. This time Rikki said, “You know what this disease is. That’s why you’re not afraid of getting sick.”

  The man raised his brow. “The boy must have breathed something. Perhaps at the canisters you found?”

  Rikki almost choked. “How—”

  “How nothing,” he interrupted. “We’ve cleaned the spill. Destroyed the bodies.”

  “You’re responsible,” she whispered. “You made this thing.”

  “And how lovely that you did not take ill. How unfortunate, too, that this young man did.” Broker sighed. “And Amiri? His health?”

  Rikki said nothing. Broker smiled and finished drawing the last vial of blood. He gestured to the men. They tied her hands behind her back, bound her feet, and set her next to Eddie. The young man’s breathing was slow and uneven. His face was red. Heat rolled off his skin. She tried to remember the notes, the recorded progression of the disease, but her thoughts ran up against static, the dull thump of her heartbeat.

  “Hey,” she whispered. “Hey, kid.”

  No response. Marco stood nearby, watching. Rikki met his gaze, straight and even, until the man with the earring stepped between them, seemingly by accident. He gave Rikki a look, though, and shook his head, just slightly.

  A radio squawked. The tattooed blond slapped his hip and answered the call in perfect English, with a slight southern twang. A surprise; Rikki had been expecting something a bit more European, regardless of Elvis.

  On the other end, words rattled in French. Rikki heard a distinctive—and familiar—clicking sound.

  Broker held out his hand for the radio. “Yes?” he said, in English.

  There was a brief pause. Then, from the radio: “Where are you?”

  “Here and there,” Broker replied. “My duties called me away.”

  Again, more silence. Then, “My men are not responding.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “I think they are dead.” The male voice on the radio did not seem especially heartbroken. “If we do not hurry, we will lose the woman, too. She cannot survive long in the jungle.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Broker replied, meeting Rikki’s gaze. “What would you like me to do?”

  “I need replacements. Your men, this time.”

  Broker made his own clicking sound, with his tongue. “That is not part of our arrangement.”

  “The arrangement has changed.” Flat, hard. “I want your men. You will give them to me.”

  “No.” Broker’s expression shifted into something so cold, Rikki found herself leaning back against Eddie’s prone body for comfort, for that terrible heat.

  “I will kill you,” said the voice.

  “And I will find your daughters,” replied Broker. “I will find your wife. And I will sell them. I will give them to men who are skilled in unspeakable things. I will send you the pictures. Would you like that, Jaaved?”

  “You would not dare.” Rage. Shaking, terrible, rage.

  “Your wife, then. Within the hour.” Broker ended the connection and turned off the radio. He nodded at Marco, who pulled a massive satellite phone from one of the packs on the ground.

  Rikki stared. “You’re not serious.”

  Broker looked at her, and she suddenly wished very much that she had not spoken. “Jaaved will thank me, later. I could have chosen his daughters.”

  He took the phone and walked a short distance away, Marco at his back. The man with the earring watched them go, then crouched near Rikki. He shared a quick glance with Mr. Tattoo, who grabbed water from the pack and brought it to Rikki.

  “Eddie first,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Rattled to the core by Broker’s words.

  The man shrugged and knelt. Placed the bottle against Eddie’s lips and very gently tipped. Water went in, but most streamed down the sides of his mouth. He never stirred.

  “You sons of bitches,” she murmured. “He’s just a kid.”

  “Never seen a kid do what he does,” said the man, tattoo flexing. “We’re all that’s left. No one else can walk. All those men, and all he had to do was think hard.”

  He held the water bottle to her mouth. She thought about refusing, but could not see the point. As she drank, the man said, “You better watch yourself, lady.”

  She choked slightly. “Any other words of wisdom, Mr. Memphis Flash?”

  The man blinked, then cracked a toothy smile. “Funny.”

  “I never make jokes about the King.”

  “Moochie,” said the man with the earring, gaze flickering to his right. Marco was watching them. Broker still had his back turned.

  “Moochie?” Rikki echoed.

  “And he’s Francis,” said Moochie, screwing the cap back on the water bottle. “Got an opinion about that? Keep it to yourself.”

  “Right,” she muttered, thinking hard.
“You guys like working for psychopaths?”

  “Good health benefits,” Moochie replied dryly, and returned the water to the pack. The man named Francis said nothing at all. Behind them, Marco ambled close. He looked at Rikki, then Eddie. Studied the young man’s face, bandaged fingers twitching. She thought of him at the airfield, dressed as a peacekeeper. Calling out her name. Screaming as the fire exploded around him. Obviously, not for long enough.

  But these were the people in charge of the violence at the camp; she was sure of it. At least, they were part of the puzzle.

  Marco brought back his foot like he was going to put a soccer shot high and deep. Rikki did not think. She threw herself over Eddie’s body, caught the blow against her shoulder. It was hard and painful, but not as bad as knives. She heard a scuffling sound, men hitting each other … then Broker’s voice, cutting through the melee.

  “You told us you don’t want them hurt,” Francis said, breathless, somewhere above her head.

  “Yes,” Broker replied. “But at least he has the stomach for it.”

  Rikki felt cold. Fingers laced through her short hair and pulled back. Cold dead eyes stared into her face, but this time she swallowed hard and said, “You want to tell me why I’m so popular? Why you lied to that other man?”

  “You know things,” Broker said. “That is why Jaaved wants you.”

  She gritted her teeth. “And you?”

  He smiled. “Because you have things.”

  She was afraid to know what that meant. Broker dragged her off Eddie’s limp body. Behind him, Marco cradled a bloody nose. Moochie’s knuckles were sticky red.

  Broker tossed her down and looked at Francis. “Call the helicopter.”

  “No,” Rikki found herself saying. “Why are you doing this?”

  Broker ignored her. For one brief moment she entertained the overwhelming desire to start screaming. Just because. Like some miracle would happen. Superman flying down from the sky.

  But she kept her mouth clamped shut. There was no one who could help her. No one, except Amiri. And if, by some miracle, he were nearby and unhurt, she did not want him here. Not anywhere near here.